


Yule

by chewysugar



Series: An Abundance of Equinoxes [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anxiety, Christmas, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Pre-Epilogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 13:28:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20706770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: They don't call it the bleak midwinter for nothing. When the weather turns, Ron and Hermione are left stranded at The Burrow, and reach a crucial turning point in their relationship.





	Yule

**Author's Note:**

> This was so much fun to write. I love these two dearly, and wish people would cut them a little slack in canon. The series is from Harry's point-of-view, and there's a lot of development between Ron and Hermione that we as readers just never saw. Hopefully this did them some justice.

Ron woke up the morning of Christmas Eve to a rather miserable sight. The wetlands around The Burrow were blanketed under snow as high as a small child. Given that flakes were still falling ferociously from the sky, the odds of anything clearing up this side of Boxing Day were very slim indeed.

“Bugger it all,” he muttered, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He and Hermione ought to have left for the Delacour Manor with the rest of the family the day before. But Ron’s blasted auror training had kept him kipped out somewhere near Suffolk for a day longer than he’d expected. While he’d told Hermione she was more than welcome to join the rest of the Weasley’s and Harry, she’d flatly refused. It would have been frustrating if Ron hadn’t been so warmed by the act of loyalty.

Now, though, thanks to the onslaught of snow, they’d have to travel by floo.

Ron kicked his blankets off. Cold floorboards met his bare feet, and he hissed as he hobbled towards the door, still in his t-shirt and pajama bottoms.

The smell of fresh coffee permeated the air once he was on the first floor landing. He heard a mellow song from some new singer playing softly from the speakers of the wireless. And there, as if she were in her own kitchen, stood Hermione, dressed in a comfortable sweater as she prepared a skillet of scrambled eggs. She swayed a little, in time to the music, her voice breathy as she sang along:

“…_if this love is just a charm…I’ll stay forever in your arms…hold me darling through the night…you’re my lumos, my lasting light_…”

Merlin, there wasn’t a present under the big Christmas tree in the corner as wonderful as she. Ron stood against the door frame, arms folded, watching the woman he loved so at ease and comfortable. He often wracked his brain for what he’d done to deserve her. It often ate him alive, just what exactly it was that she saw in him. 

Hermione turned, doing a sort of spin in the act of her dance. She stopped when she saw Ron, but didn’t appear upset in the least at his having silently observed her. 

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Ron replied, not all referring to the sight outside the windows—which, given the height of the snow, wasn’t much of a sight at all. “You didn’t have to make breakfast. I could have helped.”

Hermione turned back to the range. “Brilliant. I saved the bacon for you, anyway, as I still can’t get the hang of it.”

Ron slipped an arm around her waist, and gave her a quick peck on the forehead as he passed by. “Mum says I make it too crispy.”

“I like the way you make it.” She smiled. “Besides, it’s just us here. We can have whatever you want.”

“In that case,” said Ron as he withdrew a tightly wrapped bundle of bacon from the larder, “I’ll have a firewhisky, roast lamb, and mashed potatoes.”

Hermione smirked. “You’ll be preparing that on your own, then.”

Food, warmth, music, coffee and a beautiful girl—Heaven paled in comparison.

They managed to turn the act of making breakfast into a form of play. Hermione jinxed his bacon to wriggle across the skillet like worms. Ron aimed a glob of marmalade at her when her back was turned. Hermione, being Hermione, redirected the projectile’s trajectory, and made it land with a graceful plop back into its jar.

_It’s like being married,_ Ron thought when they both sat down to enjoy the fruits of their labour. It was a good thing, after all, that the circumstances had transpired thusly. Had his parents, Harry, Ginny, George, Percy and Charlie been around, he and Hermione would have had to settle for whatever scant quiet moments they could find together. 

The only thing stopping it from being truly splendid was the stack of books at the table.

Ron examined _Advanced Transfiguration in Practice and Theory_. “Blimey, they don’t let the grass grow under your feet, do they?”

“No.” For once, the realm of academics appeared to be weighing Hermione down. “Thank God for having the same classes as Ginny, Luna and Neville. Look at this—“ she gestured at an empty scroll of parchment. “Slughorn wants us to write an essay on the exact extraction of hellebore by the start of term. It’s about as dull as History of Magic.”

Ron grinned. “I think it’s incredibly hot when you talk like that.”

“Without my usual defence of schoolwork?” Hermione chuckled, and placed her hand over his. “Let’s just say I’ve realized there are a few more important things than school.”

“Careful, Granger: you’re approaching blasphemy.”

“Then I guess that means I’m going straight to Hell.” She laughed. “I suppose I shouldn’t talk of such things on Christmas Eve.”

Ron glanced out the window. He stood a better chance at being adopted by the Malfoy family than the snow letting up any time soon. “Might not be much of a Christmas.”

Hermione squeezed his hand. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to risk Apparition.”

Ron’s side itched in a spasm of sympathetic memory. “Not in this,” he said. “Too indistinct. It’s harder to Disapparte when the weather’s bad.” Not only was it harder to concentrate, but in such a snowstorm, the poor soul who didn’t focus hard enough stood a likely chance at splinching themselves into snow particles.

“We’ll take the floo network, then.” Hermione stretched; Ron tried very hard not to notice how her sweater rode up her chest as she did so.

At that moment, the wireless’ disc jockey came through, her voice clear as a Christmas bell. “That was Corriander Stark with ‘_Heart Like a Dragon_.’ A fine tune for a cozy Christmas Eve. It looks positively wintry out there, and things are at a standstill: owl post, broom transport and portkey use. The Department of Magical Transportation would like me to remind everyone listening that it is inadvisable to Apparate until the snow lets up, and that the floo network is down for routine maintenance.” The woman laughed. “What a time to be stranded, eh? Right during the jolly holidays. Well, maybe this will cheer any travellers having to make new plans: here’s Pentagrammix with “_Have Yourself A Magical Little Christmas…”_

The stylized acapella began, upbeat and festive, unaware of the effect that the DJ’s announcement had had on the only two occupants of The Burrow. Ron and Hermione stared at one another as if they’d both been hit with stunners. Crookshanks wound himself around Ron’s bare ankles. The wind picked up outside, as if crowing in delight.

Then Ron laughed.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Oh, I’m so glad you find it amusing! We can’t even get in touch with your parents! They’ll be tearing their hair out—

“Dad’s got no hair left to tear,” Ron chortled. “And don’t worry, ‘Mione.” Ron raised his wand and said, “_Accio_, mirror!” A moment later, a small shard of glass zoomed down the stairs.

“Sirius’s mirror,” Ron said, holding up the glass. “Harry has the other end.”

“I thought Aberforth had it.”

“He did, but it wasn’t doing him any good, was it?” Truth be told, Dumbledore’s brother had sent the shard by owl when he’d found out about Ron’s and Harry’s ambitions to become aurors. “_Use it well_,” the scrap of parchment had read.

Ron held the mirror up to his face. “Oi, git,” he said, “take a break from wanking for a moment, will you?”

“Oh, very nice, Ronald,” Hermione muttered, but Ron only grinned. Only people close as he and Harry could speak to each other in verbal barbs, and have it mean the same as “I love you.”

Harry’s face appeared a split-second later. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and his hair appeared more unruly than usual. Judging from the pillows behind his head, he’d just woken up.

“Prat,” Harry grumbled. “And here I was, just about to finish myself off.”

“Mind your mouth. There’s a lady present.”

“Good morning, Harry,” said Hermione in a sugar-sweet voice that would have nauseated Dolores Umbridge.

Harry blinked. “What’re you both still doing at The Burrow?”

“That’s what I’m calling you about,” said Ron. “There’s about six feet of snow outside, and the floo network’s down for maintenance. The Ministry has a travel ban on.”

Harry’s face fell. “Damn. I was really looking forward to Christmas this year.” After the disaster of the previous winter, Ron wasn’t at all surprised. Still, Harry’s desire to be with the people he considered family touched him deeply.

“Yeah,” Ron said. “We’ll see if it’s better tomorrow, but no promises. Tell Mum for me, will you?” 

“Oh, she’s going to be over the bleeding moon about that,” Harry muttered. “Between her and Teddy, I’ll be lucky to get a moment’s peace.”

“Oh,” Hermione gasped. “Is Teddy there?”

“Yeah. Andromeda went to spend the holiday with her husband’s family.”

Ron winced. He and Hermione had taken as much of a shine to Harry’s godson as Harry himself had. The thought of not being able to cuddle the giggling little boy with hair that was ever-changing made Ron want to hex the weather out of spite.

“We’ll try tomorrow,” said Ron firmly. “Even if we have to walk to the village and Apparate from behind a dustbin.”

“Alright.” Harry turned his head to the side. “Gin, is there anything you want to say to your brother?”

Heat exploded behind Ron’s face. Happy as he was for his best friend and little sister, he didn’t much fancy the mental images of them together. “It’s fine,” Ron said loudly. “I’ll let you know if we can make it tomorrow or not!”

Harry chuckled. “Okay. Talk to you later, mate." 

“Definitely.”

“Cheers, ‘Mione,” Harry said.

“Bye, Harry.”.

The mirror fogged over, and Ron buried his face in his arms. “I suppose it’s wishful thinking to assume that they were just playing a game of gobstones in bed. 

Hermione sipped her coffee. “They haven’t seen each other since Halloween. And Delacour Manor is a lot bigger than here. I can’t blame her for taking advantage of time…alone…together…” Her face turned pink as a pygmy puff. She met Ron’s eyes, and Ron’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he turned equally as red.

Thoughts raced in time with his heart. Over the summer, he and Hermione had tested the bounds of their relationship, and while it was leagues more meaningful than anything Ron had had with Lavender Brown, they’d never gone beyond snogging until breathless. He was terrified of going any further, not knowing if Hermione wanted to, or if she would appreciate his even asking. Ron had been content to simply fantasize like some inexperienced teenager, pumping himself dry in his sleep, and doing his best to respect whatever boundaries Hermione had.

Her return to Hogwarts had been both a boon and a major drawback. It didn’t help that Ron knew full well Harry and Ginny had taken that next step some time ago. With Harry waylaying his auror training in order to see a muggle doctor specializing in mental well-being, Ron had found himself suspended in this state of cursing the time he had to himself, while feeling inwardly thankful that he didn’t have to worry about accidentally catching Harry looking dreamy over Ginny. Nor did he have to try and hide his body’s reaction to Hermione’s presence as much. 

Ron looked down at his plate, painfully aware of the fact that he and Hermione could very well be stranded here together until after New Year’s. He wanted both to hide in the pantry until the snow stopped, and throw Hermione over his shoulder and carry her up to his room.

“I’ll, er, clear up,” he said, desperate for action. “If you’re done, that is.” 

“Yes. Thank you, Ron.” She sounded…not disappointed, but wistful. Damn it all, why did women have to be such riddles? It wasn’t as if Ron could solve Hermione like a game of chess. Books were of little use, as he’d discovered with the rubbish one his brothers had given him.

As he did the dishes, he thought about all they’d been through together. More than most couples, certainly. So why did this seem more insurmountable than facing down a hundred dementors?

“Think I’ll get the fire started,” Hermione said, as Ron levitated the last of the dishes into their cupboard. “This sweater isn’t exactly doing the trick.”

Ron grunted in reply, and watched as Hermione crouched down in front of the fireplace. She jabbed her wand at the kindling, and merry flames soon crackled in the hearth. 

Then, both Ron and Hermione froze. A sickening squelching noise echoed through the chimney. It sounded like a mudslide was coming down the flue. Ron looked out the window once more, and felt comprehension cold as the falling snow fill him.

“Hermione—“ He took a step forward, but it was too late. A moment later, a deluge of water fell over the flames, snuffing out what had been a cheerful fire. Hermione yelped as a flood of water—what had once been the snow blocking up the chimney—cascaded over her. A puddle spread across the hearth, seeping under the rug.

Hermione sat still near the dead fire, blinking water out of her eyes. “Oh,” she hissed, “oh excellent!”

“It’s all right.” Ron tried not to laugh as he strode to Hermione’s side to help her up. But he couldn’t stifle the chuckle that escaped. “Just a bit of water.”

“A bit of water?” said Hermione shrilly. She got to her feet. “I could have filled a bath tub with that!”

“Don’t worry about it. Here--” Ron passed his wand from the tip of Hermione’s head down to her soaked socks. The water evaporated from her as if it had been siphoned off with a straw.

Hermione still didn’t look at all mollified. Ron knew perfectly well that where most avoided humiliation, Hermione was petrified of it. She’d done her utmost to be the best at everything she did: not to show off, but to fill the chips in her armour with knowledge. And he, Ron, had done the same thing all his life; only in his case he’d looked for glory and respect.

Not so odd after all that he’d fallen in love with Hermione Granger.

Hermione shivered. Just because the water had been cleared didn’t mean Ron had suctioned away the chill.

“Come on,” he said, holding his hand out. “You deserve a hot bath after that.”

She rolled her eyes, but accepted his hand nonetheless. “Yes, Mum. I’ll do whatever Mum says.”

“Oh, don’t.” Ron grimaced as he led her to the bathroom on the ground floor. “Bad enough I almost caught my sister with our best friend this morning.”

A large, claw-footed bathtub took up most of the space in the bathroom. Fred and George had seen fit to replace the old wooden basin when they’d opened their shop.

Ron kept his wand trained on the bathtub. Hot water spouted from the tip, filling the porcelain. He caught Hermione’s eye, doing his best not to dissolve into a fit of giggles at the suggestive sight of liquid pouring from his wand. Hermione broke first, snickering and turning her head to hide her juvenile amusement.

“Your spellwork’s gotten incredible,” she said by way of composing herself.

“I find I learn better when I feel like there’s something practical to apply it to.”

Hermione curled his fingers over his wrist. “You’ve always been that way.”

Ron let his wand fall, feeling as if hundreds of buttery, warm, flying things were tickling the inside of his stomach. Then he was kissing her, tripping over hesitation and insecurity. 

She tasted rich as coffee, sweet as cream. Her fingers curled into the sleeves of his t-shirt; her tongue grazed his bottom lip. Sparks erupted in the pit of his stomach. Merlin, but he could so easily back her against the wall, slip his hands under the warm, fuzzy sweater and feel her skin against his palms…

Gasping, Ron stepped away, his lips tingling. Hermione’s eyes slid in and out of focus, as if she’d woken from a dream. An inscrutable expression crossed her face, and this time there was no denying the disappointment.

Ron cleared his throat and gestured to the bathtub.

“Your remedy, Herm-own-ninny.”

Hermione nodded, looking a little lost. “Yes. Thank you, Won-Won.”

Ron squeezed his eyes shut. “I thought this was supposed to be Christmas Eve, not Embarrass Ron Day.”

With a chuckle, Hermione gripped the hem of her sweater and deftly pulled it over her head. Ron caught a glimpse of her smooth, bare skin, and then all but sprinted out the door. He thought he heard Hermione give a frustrated sigh as the door closed behind him.

Breathing as if he’d run the length of the Hall of Prophecy, Ron entered the kitchen.

He braced his hands on the sink, his heart going a mile a minute.

Damn it all, would he ever figure this out? Hermione wasn’t stupid, nor was she delicate. She’d hex Ron’s todger off if he ever pushed too hard and far. Here she was, seemingly fine with the idea of taking that next big step, and Ron was getting cold feet.

_But_, said a voice in his head, _what if she doesn’t want it, and you’re just full of yourself?_

He’d kill himself if he ever caused Hermione pain. Part of him wondered why he didn’t just come right out and say it—ask her if she was ready. But hadn’t Fred and George told him that girls didn’t like boys being too direct?

It was at times like this that Ron envied (and he felt completely stupid for doing so) Harry. Harry had actually had competent adults to tell him how to traverse the pitfalls in his life. Granted, most of them had died, but he’d at least had the option of turning to them for support.

Ron had older brothers who made him feel like his mere presence was nothing more than something to be tolerated.

Needing something to do, he began to tidy the house, though it didn’t need it in the least. He chased Crookshanks away from the Christmas tree, trimmed a fern growing near Mum’s rocking chair, and reorganized the cupboards—all things that didn’t need doing, for the sake of outrunning his thoughts.

Without the fire going, The Burrow began to get very cold. Ron withdrew an array of empty jam jars, and had ignited blue flame within several of them. Hermione entered from the bathroom, looking very refreshed in a spare burgundy housecoat.

Her eyes fell on the cluster of glowing jars hovering in the air. Each gave off a wave of warmth as good as the fireplace.

Hermione smiled. “Goodness,” she said, “with the amount of spells you’re doing, I may no longer be needed around here.”

“Yes,” Ron said, turning to attend to another empty glass jar. “That’s the only reason I care about you. The spellwork.” He opened the lid and fired a puff of blue flame into the glass. “I thought it would be cozier this way.” He screwed the lid back on. “And we won’t have to worry about stoking the fire if we need to stay…warm…” 

He’d turned, hoping to see that pleased look on her face again. She didn’t look pleased; she looked victorious, which had everything to do with the fact that she’d let the housecoat fall to the floor. She stood, nothing on aside from a pair of plain blue knickers. 

Ron dropped the jam jar—thankfully it landed on the plush rug near the sink, and rolled harmlessly into the wall. His mouth had gone dry as stone. Desire roared through his bloodstream like the Lion of Gryffindor.

With a tiny smile, Hermione crossed the floor. The glowing blue lights made her look a positive spirit come to Earth. 

“You don’t have to look so scared.” She took his face in her hands, forcing him to look her in the eye.

“M’not scared,” Ron mumbled. “Just nervous.”

“Same thing.”

“Is not.”

Hermione brushed his lip with her thumb. “What are you so _nervous_ about, then?”

Ron inhaled, taking the scent of her clean, scrubbed skin into his lungs. No point in being precious about it now.

“I don’t want to disappoint you.”

She pressed her forehead to his chin. “Ronald Weasley, on the list of things you could do to disappoint me, _this_ is very low in the going.” She kissed him again, soft as a flake of snow. “Besides…it’s you. That’s all I want. I could care less if it was something to write home about.”

Ron cleared his throat. “But you, uh, will write home about it, won’t you? Just for the sake of my ego?"

“Oh, shut up.” She pulled him in for another kiss, and Ron’s doubts and insecurities dispersed as if banished by a patronus. Consumed by need, he scooped Hermione into his arms and carried her through the living room. He wasn’t really paying attention to where it was that he went. All he knew was that carrying her all the way to his bedroom would be too involved. There were more pressing matters than location. 

They slipped through the first door they came to on the ground floor landing. Ron lay Hermione a bed not his own and drank in the sight of her: cheeks flushed, body exposed, hair a mass of brown curls around her face.

She grinned, and gently pushed him away with her foot. “I’m feeling a little imbalanced, here.”

Ron nodded.

Taking his shirt off was nothing. Even slipping out of his pajama pants wasn’t the most daunting. But when it came to finally stripping himself bare before her, he couldn’t seem to make his fingers behave. Thoughts that plagued most men clouded his vision: would he be enough? Would she laugh at him? Would he be too big for her? Would he be too small? Ron didn’t exactly consider himself anything particularly special below the belt, but it hadn’t exactly been an issue of contention before. Now, though, he wanted to be enough for Hermione, because that was what she bloody well deserved. 

_It’s you, you great, stupid prat_, said a voice in his head rather like Harry’s. _You’ll be enough for her because _you’re_ what she wants…_

Ron took a breath. Then he slipped his underwear off. He stood, fingers fidgeting at his sides, afraid to look her in the eye.

Hermione sat up, and reached for his hand. She pulled him towards her, and Ron, feeling as if he were under some version of the Imperius curse, let her guide him.

“I…don’t know what to do.” He shook his head. “I mean, I know _what_ to _do_, I just—

She put her fingers to his lips. “Stop thinking. Just feel.” She guided his hand down her throat, to her hear, and then lower still, to the smooth curve of her stomach. She led him further, into the plush warmth between those ordinary knickers…

Ron had learned through years of trial and error that it was best not to argue with Hermione Granger. So, he removed himself from his thoughts, and followed the rhythm of her.

Breath branded their skin; hands flowed like running water between them. They joined like tongues of flame, connected at the locus of their bodies. Ron wasn’t stupid enough to fool himself into thinking he wasn’t hurting her, so he took his time, cradling her, whispering sweet somethings in her ear. 

If only it could have lasted. If only they weren’t both young and inexperienced. If only he could have bragged of his prowess: that he’d held out for hours, and that he’d been able to make it just as good for Hermione.

But he had limited control over just how amazing she felt around him; and he knew, from the uttered winces and the tension in her body, the she was hurting this first time around.

At last, Ron’s body trembled. He held himself up, not wanting to crush her with his weight as he spent himself on the unfamiliar sheets.

He rolled over, lying back, his chest heaving. He gazed at her, wondering if she was thinking the same things as him: _did I hurt you? Was I good enough? Will you still be here if I fall asleep?_

Hermione rolled into his side, pulling the blankets over top of them as she did so. Instinctively, Ron’s arms encircled her.

“Was it...” he whispered, “was it…alright?”

“Yes.” She buried her face in his neck. "More than alright."

“I didn’t…y’know…hurt you too much, did I?”

“A bit. But we’ll have plenty of time for it to get better.”

Ron smiled. Then, becoming aware of their surroundings, he groaned.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked. 

“We’re in Bill’s old room.”

“So?”

Ron shook his head. “So, this is where Harry’s been camped out since he moved in.” Their eyes met once more. Then they both giggled, intoxicated as drunkards and joyful as children.

“Good thing it’s just us, then.” Hermione snuggled closer against Ron.

“Yeah,” Ron sighed. “Christmas bloody miracle.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for taking the time to read! Leave a comment, kudo and bookmark if you enjoyed this. 
> 
> Stay tuned for the third part in this series, featuring everyone's favourite Malfoy heir.


End file.
